


Five times Combeferre helped his friends (and one time they helped him)

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-03 16:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2857961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Triumvrate friendship fic.</p><p>For Les Mis Holidays exchange</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [legendofthefireemblem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendofthefireemblem/gifts).



**1.**

Combeferre is not as straight-laced as everyone assumes he is, and he is not ashamed of that. He takes a detour after picking up the groceries; the bags are particularly heavy today since he knows Enjolras forgot to go shopping, so there's two people's worth of food in there. Still he already knows what he wants from the pharmacy, so it's a case of walking in and picking it up.

Enjolras is still working when he gets home, hunched over his computer, fingers furiously clacking away. Combeferre raps twice on the desk as he walks past, and Enjolras straightens his back, stretching out until a couple of vertabrae click, all without ever taking his eyes off the screen. Combeferre isn't sure whether Enjolras is even aware he does that anymore; he has Enjolras pretty well trained.

The coffee maker gets a fresh pot of decaf as Combeferre goes about making lunch, popping things on the stove and putting groceries away at the same time. (The bad milk on Enjolras' shelf gets dumped, as do the Chinese leftovers from four days ago.) He'd switched to decaf two days ago, in the hopesit would slow Enjolras down, but he's so out of it he hasn't even noticed.

“Coffee?” ask Combeferre, calling across the kitchen area. Enjolras makes some sort of vague, muffled noise that Combeferre assumes is either assent, or the long a-waited 'I haven't slept in so long I've lost the ability to form words'. It's possibly both.

Combeferre pulls out the pharmacy bag, and laces Enjolras's coffee liberally. He holds the coffee just out of Enjolras's reach, which makes Enjolras stretch out his arm (his elbow and three fingers click), and waits for it to kick in, but nothing happens. He gets out the bottle again, and reads the label on the back. This time, he adds in twice the recommended dose and then watches and waits. And cooks lunch, for one.

Enjolras is zonked out in about ten minutes, the feverish productivity brought on by insomnia and coffee slowed to a stop for now. He's also fallen asleep somehow mostly vertical. Combeferre carefully walks over and saves the document Enjolras was working on, and drapes a blanket over him.

**2.**

“COURFEYRAC!” screams Enjolras, when he's awake again, around six hours later.

Courf, who only arrived there twenty minutes ago and is helping Combeferre redistribute all of Enjolras's duties onto the two of them, blinks and looks up.

Enjolras marches into the kitchen, blanket still draped over his shoulders. His hair is crushed on one side, curls hanging limply like squashed origami, and sticking up on the back, fluffy and staticky. He looks like a bedraggled kitten, albeit a furious one.

“What the hell did you do?” yells Enjolras, eyes frantic. “Did you _drug_ me? Where's my laptop? What kind of prank is this?”

Courfeyrac's eyebrows rise so high Combeferre suspects that they're hiding in his scalp.

“Why would _Courfeyrac_ do something that mean?” says Combeferre. “And it's not a prank. Your laptop is off and in your room, charging, because you've had it on for so long it was about to overheat. I saved your document, don't worry.”

Enjolras freezes, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. “I – what?”

“Also, I drugged you. With Nyquil,” says Combeferre matter-of-factly.

Enjolras gapes at him, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, before marching out and to his room, as if Combeferre might be lying to him and he needs to check, right now. Combeferre takes a sip of his own coffee, which is definitely not decaf, and watches him in amusement.

“You dosed Enjolras with Nyquil?” asks Courfeyrac.

“Only a little bit,” says Combeferre, putting the bottle on the counter to show him. It's half empty.

Enjolras shuffles back in to the kitchen, laptop tucked under one arm. “Thanks,” he says, and adds sheepishly, “Sorry Courf. I should have known you didn't do that.”

“Thanks,” says Courfeyrac, nudging Combeferre lightly. “For – you know.”

Combeferre pats him on the head like he's a puppy. “You are small and precious and would never do anything mean,” he says solemnly.

“Aw, thanks – wait, what?”

“You must be protected at all costs.”

“Are you making fun of me?”


	2. Chapter 2

**3.**

They're protesting along the riverbank and it's _cold_. But at the same time, everyone's spirits are high. Les Amis might be at the front of the crowd because they are the face that the public knows, but Enjolras is the one that's easily recognisable.

The rest of them move in and out, grabbing coffee and tea for people or distributing scarves, taking pictures and posting them on their official website with live updates. Combeferre himself spends it moving through the crowd, making sure that even people at the back are updated and knows what's going on. Plus, it's just nice to see how big the ranks are swelling.

Combeferre is just almost at the front again, heading there to check in with Enjolras and maybe take a moment to grab a coffee for himself when a rush of people come surging out one of the side streets just ahead. Combeferre raises his phone to take a photo, before realising with a sick lurch in his stomach that they are not protesters. They've got hoods pulled up over their heads and scarves wrapped around their faces so it's impossible to see who they are, and they _ram_ into the crowd of protesters, sending dozens of people staggering. Combeferre watches it unfold in front of him as people ripple towards the riverside and get stuck, pressed against the barriers along the riverbank; signs go askew and knock people on the head, groups try to pull friends up out of the way of trampling feet and protesters start pushing back, determined not to be swayed.

It's chaos in half a minute; Combeferre texts an alert to Enjolras and then ploughs into the crowd, helping people up and out of the way and trying to separate people out. "'Ferre!" he hears someone yell, and looks up to see Courfeyrac fighting his way towards him, waving his phone.

"They're deploying the police out this way," yells Courfeyrac when he's within earshot. "We've got to get clear of this bit. I tried to call, but you didn't pick up."

"Too noisy," says Combeferre back, which is when someone with their hood pulled low slams into Courfeyrac; his phone goes flying, instantly trodden on by someone in the crowd, and Courfeyrac himself goes tumbling over the railings, rolls down the steep dirt bank and straight into the river with a terrifying splash.

"COURF!" yells Combeferre.

He throws himself over the railing without a second though, skidding down the bank himself and barely slowing himself down enough to not fall in himself. There are people leaning over and watching already, phones out and calling an ambulance or taking pictures. Combeferre doesn't care, just keeps an eye on the water where Courf went in and fumbling along the narrow riverbank until he reaches one of the lifeguard posts wing a flotation ring hooked on it.

"Courf!" yells Combeferre again when there's splashing, and the top of Courfeyrac's head appears. He's struggling, his heavy winter clothes completely waterlogged and dragging him down, and Combeferre skims the flotation ring to him like skipping a stone so he doesn't hit him on the head, and heaves a sigh of relief when Courfeyrac clutches at it eventually. "Someone call the medics!"

Combeferre bodily hauls him onto the riverbank, standing to one side so he's shielding the worst of the winter wind. Courf's skin is translucent white, his blood vessels an alarmingly bright blue, and his lips are already starting to go purple. There's a gash on his forehead and while it'snot deep, blood is welling out at an alarming rate

"Courf, look at me," says Combeferre for lack of anything else to say as he peels Courf out of his clothes, wrestling him out of the heavy winter coat, and then his sodden sweater.

"I k-k-knew you were j-just looking for an excuse to g-get me out of my clothes," says Courfeyrac faintly, his teeth chattering. Combeferre can see huge goosepimples rising on his arms already, and he hurriedly pulls off his own coat, draping it around Courfeyrac's shoulders.

Courfeyrac makes a noise. "I'll ruin y'coat," he mumbles, eyes starting to go glassy and wide and Combeferre looks around to see if anyone's coming.

"They're on their way," yells someone from above them, and holds out a coat and some scarves.

"Thank you," says Combeferre gratefully. The wind whips at his back, but he ignores the way his own body starts to shiver in favour of reaching up and piling more clothes on Courfeyrac, using his scarf to dry his hair as best as he can as Courfeyrac huddles.

 

**4.**

Combeferre is awoken when his phone slips out of his hand and hits the floor, the clatter waking him up. He bolt upright and then groans as his back twinges and screams at him for moving suddenly. He groans, and bends to pick his phone up, squirming in the small chair to try and get comfortable again.

Clicking his back out, Combeferre looks over at the hospital bed where Courfeyrac's out like a light. He's still wrapped in a foil blanket and not quite so pale now, so Combeferre doesn't keep looking over and thinking with a lurch in his stomach, but he's being kept in for observation for a while.

Combeferre isn't his attending doctor because it's a conflict of interest, but his colleagues have let him sit in well past visiting hours, and take the day off work to stay by Courfeyrac's side, holding his hand when he's had to be given a serious dose of antibiotics in the hopes of warding off whatever diseases were lurking in the riverwater.

His phone buzzes – that's right, he's had it off silent for the protest so they would all stay updated – and Combeferre looks down at it. It's a text from Feuilly and Combeferre stands up in alarm; the blanket one of the nurses had given him falls to the floor, and Combeferre tosses is onto the chair impatiently before heading out of the room and down the corridor at a run.

He probably looks horrific, with his bedhead and rumpled clothes, dashing down towards the wards. "Enjolras," he bites out, shoving one of the doors open. "What on _earth_ happened?"

Feuilly looks at him with a blank face, which mean Feuilly is at the end of his tether, and Combeferre claps him on the shoulder as he leaves.

"I went pole-dancing," says Enjolras. "What does it look like? How's Courfeyrac?"

Combeferre purses his lips, because apparently he's best friends with _two_ people who make jokes when they're injured, and walks in, shutting the door behind them. "He's stable for now. We're just keeping him in, just in case it turns into pneumonia."

Enjolras is sitting on the edge of the bed, as if he's about to try and escape at any time. He has scrapes all up one arm, as if someone's attempted to grate him against a wall a few times, and there's blood matted into his hair and still dripping down his face despite the nurse daubing at it and holding a pad of gauze over the cut itself.

"Doctor," says the nurse, and gives Combeferre a long-suffering look. Her other hand is tamped around Enjolras's arm; Combeferre suspects that he's already tried to make a run for it.

"I'll go clock in, shall I," says Combeferre.

 

**5.**

Their next protest goes much better.

“Enjolras, watch out!” Combeferre sees the rise of an arm in the crowd, sees the hand rearing back and then launching forward, sees the brick fly through the air, aim dead on for Enjolras.

He's halfway across the stage before he knocks it, and shoulders Enjolras off the podium. The world explodes in a burst of black.


	3. Chapter 3

**+1.**

The slow, steady _blip blip_ of an ECG is a familiar sound to Combeferre. His eyes feel heavy and weighed down; it takes effort to peel them open. He blinks, feeling the residue of sleep gumming at his eyelashes, and groans. The _blip blip blip_ speeds up a little and he squints at the bright overheat lights, blinding him.

And then there's a dark figure blocking the light and looming over him. “Ferre?” The voice is thin, and sounds like it's coming from a distance even though familiarity tugs at the edges of his waking mind.

Combeferre groans again.

“Combeferre?” Another shadow joins the first from the other side, blocking the light more thoroughly, and Combeferre blinks some more as though that will clear the fog from his mind. “Can you hear us?”

“Yes,” he says, his throat feeling like sandpaper. He swallows, and a straw is tucked into his mouth. He drains long sips of it as the voices start again.

“Do you remember what happened?”

"Oh yes," he says raspily. "Someone threw me at a brick, didn't they?"

There's a long worried pause, as they try to figure out whether he swapped the words intentionally, and Combeferre waits until he's drained most of the water to add: "I'm joking. Yes, I remember. Brick, meet face. Ow. Everything went black. How did your speech go?"

"How did my –" Enjolras stares at him as Combeferre fiddles for the remote to raise the front end of his bed, letting him sit up with minimal pain. "There was no speech! You got hit in the face with a brick! You were _bleeding._ "

Courfeyrac pats Combeferre's hand. "Even Enjolras isn't so ruthless to ignore your bleeding body," he says dryly.

"Oh," says Combeferre with disappointment. "I'd have thought that after that, you'd have at least taken the opportunity to denounce the violence."

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose and Combeferre pats his hand. "Well, we can at least make a video about it from here, with me looking all frail with a head dressing. You know what they say about publicity."

"You – want to take advantage and sympathy whore yourself out?" asks Enjolras incredulously. " _You?_ "

Combeferre smiles blandly at him. Courfeyrac, who's a tiny bit quicker on the uptake, hides his smile behind one hand.

"... You're trolling me," says Enjolras accusingly.

"I knew he'd get there eventually," Combeferre murmurs to Courfeyrac before turning to Enjolras and repeating more loudly, "I know you'd get there –"

"Yes, alright, thank you," says Enjolras with a scowl.

Combeferre reaches for his glasses, and gingerly touches the head dressing. It doesn't feel too bad, but he also doesn't know how much medication he's on. "Pass me my chart?" he says, fishing the clipboard from Courfeyrac's hands as soon as he gets his hands on it.

Possible concussion, it says. Also possible head trauma, haemorrhaging and cerebral contusion. Further scans needed once patient is awake and can consent to tests; medical next of kin notified in case of non-awakening. Well. That's not good.

"Not too bad," says Combeferre cheerfully, and swings his legs off the bed.

"What, _no_ ," says Courfeyrac. "They said your brain could be bleeding!"

"It could also... not!" says Combeferre brightly. "It's just a possibility, you know."

"A _high_ probability, based on observing your skull, which was bashed in by a brick," says Courfeyrac. "You have strict doctor's orders to not leave the bed."

“Ahaha,” says Combeferre. “Ahahaha. Haha. I am a trained medical professional, I would like to think that I am more qualified than you to know whether I can leave the bed or not.” And he makes a run for it.

He doesn't get very far, because the moment he's upright nausea sweeps through him and also maybe Enjolras tackles him back onto the bed and Courfeyrac sits on his legs.

“Oh God,” says Enjolras despairingly. “You're going to be a worse patient than I am, aren't you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Dear legendofthefireemblem,
> 
> I hope you had/are having a good holiday season! I'm really sorry this is a) late and b) in parts. I promise it will be complete soon!


End file.
